


God Is Dead And Gone

by Nishka Wolf (NishkaGray)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Boyking!Sam, Drabble, M/M, No Sex, Priest!Cas, Sastiel - Freeform, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/pseuds/Nishka%20Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean was right,” Sam said easily, “The collar suits you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Is Dead And Gone

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : You may not copy, reproduce, distribute, publish, display, perform, modify, create derivative works, transmit, or in any way exploit any of my content, nor may you distribute any part of this content over any network, including a local area network, sell or offer it for sale, or use such content to construct any kind of database.

He tried to find peace in the silence. Even inside his own mind, the prayer seemed too loud; intrusive. His mind betrayed him, insisting that God had stopped listening a long time ago. Cas thought that this would be easier now that he’s human, that maybe his prayers would be answered, maybe he would find faith again. Instead, the priest collar chafed, reminding him that he was growing desperate for something, some sign of the path he needed to be on. 

The church was silent and dark. Candles flickered on the altar, the last of his parishioners long gone. His legs ached from kneeling. Some sign, no matter how small. All he wanted was reassurance that he was supposed to be here, still doing God’s will. That he hadn’t made a mistake in leaving Dean to fend for himself. He’d looked for God while he was still an angel and he had failed, but maybe now, as a human, it would be different. God must still care for them, his wayward creations. He must still be somewhere, listening to their voices and prayers. A small sign, nothing more. 

He closed his eyes again, ignoring the ache in his knees. Tried to clear his mind, stifle his doubts. For a few moments he actually managed to achieve some semblance of peace. Then a deep chuckle echoed behind him, vibrating off the cathedral ceiling. 

He got to his feet as quickly as his legs would allow, feeling the comforting slide of the angel blade in his sleeve. He expected anything, from a stray demon to the King of Hell himself. But he did not expect to see Sam Winchester, leaning casually on one of the pews, white teeth flashing in the gloom. 

“Sam?”

Sam tilted his head, the hair that had grown long over the years brushing his cheek. He was still smiling; an easy smile Cas had seen only on rare occasions and always meant for Dean. The pulse point under his jaw started to throb; a ridiculous human weakness he did not know how to control. There were many inconveniences to being human, but none were so apparent until Sam Winchester was around. 

“Dean was right,” Sam said easily, “The collar suits you.”

Cas reached up to touch the stiff plastic under the cotton, trying to distract himself from the insistent heat that flamed across his face. Suddenly it did not chafe as much. As a matter of fact, he would be content to wear the collar every moment for the rest of his life, as long as Sam thought it suited him. 

And this was why he’d left. This was why he was here, wearing the collar in the first place. Sam Winchester and his smiles, his hair tucked behind the ear, the sharp jawline and long neck, surprisingly gentle hands Cas could still feel pressed against his own. Distraction, sin. He had placed his hand on one Winchester brother in hell and had lost his way. But it was the simple handshake of the second, the boy with the demon blood, where his ruin truly lay. 

He turned away and knelt back down, welcoming the pain in his knees. 

“Why are you here Sam,” he asked, trying to make his tone cool and unfriendly.

But it betrayed him, wavering slightly on the name he’d whispered to himself more often than the prayers. 

“You called for me,” Sam’s voice drifted over Cas’s shoulder.

He had somehow managed to cross the church floor without making any sound at all. Cas could feel his presence now, almost close enough to touch. Shame flooded him. Had Sam heard him whispering his name when he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t control his mind? When he ached alone in his narrow bed at night, fighting the memories of Sam saying his name, Sam’s palm warm against his own, Sam’s hand resting on his knee? No. It was impossible. Sam was only human and Cas’s secret was still safe.

“You’re mistaken,” he said, “I made no attempt to contact you. Or Dean.”

“You’re lying,” Sam whispered, “you’re lying in the house of God.”

Warm fingers curved around Cas’s throat and he gasped at the contact. Had he not been kneeling already, his legs would have buckled. Confusion flooded him. 

“Sam? What—?”

The hand around his throat tightened, cutting his words in half. 

“You were calling for God,” Sam said softly, pulling him back until Cas could feel one strong thigh against the back of his head, the heat of it overwhelming. 

He could smell him now, the familiar Sam scent that used to drive him to distraction. Wrong. Something was horribly wrong here. He should be afraid. But this human body shivered with something other than fear, something Cas hasn’t learned to control yet. The angel blade lay forgotten in his sleeve while the warmth wafting off Sam’s body seemed to pump through him, raising all the hairs on is body, making it hard to breathe. Sam’s other hand brushed through Cas’s hair. 

“But God isn’t listening Cas, you know that. God is gone. You left me. And Dean… Dean is off storming the windmills, a true Don Quixote. What was I supposed to do?”

The steady confidence of Sam’s voice slipped and for a moment he sounded lost, like a little boy asking for help,

“What was I supposed to do?”

“I— I don’t—“

“Throw the blade away Cas. You won’t be needing it.”

A small part of his mind flailed in fear. Sam must be possessed, it was the only explanation that made sense. Sam he knew and cared about would never act like this, would never speak of Dean and God with so much derision. This couldn’t be Sam.

A hand gripped Cas’s hair tightly, the pain sharp and unexpected,

“The blade Cas. Get rid of it.”

Hands shaking, Cas let the blade slide out of his sleeve. He held on to it for a few moments wondering if he would ever dare use it against Sam, even Sam possessed by a demon. It was a stupid question he already knew the answer to. Even Lucifer wearing Sam’s face would be safe from Cas. Because Cas was weak; he was weak and now he was lost for good.

The bade clattered across the church floor. The pressure on his scalp eased and turned into a caress. He fought the urge to lean into the warmth of it, to twist his head so he could feel Sam’s palm on his cheek.

“Good boy,” Sam whispered and Cas barely managed to swallow a whimper.

“I like you like this,” Sam went on, fingers brushing over the spotless white collar, “on your knees. Afraid.”

“You’re not Sam,” Cas said desperately, trying to regain some control over the situation.

Soft hair tickled the side of his face as Sam leaned down. He could smell Sam’s shampoo, the familiar crisp smell like lemons in the late summer, and underneath it the scent he knew better than any other, a mix metal and fire. 

Sam’s lips brushed against his ear, his breath searing,

“You’re right. I’m so much more now.”

This time a whimper escaped freely, no amount of clenched teeth making a bit of difference. He was burning. He was burning from inside out. He had actually thought that waking up in the middle of the night with Sam’s name on his lips and the lingering dream of of Sam’s body pressed against his was the greatest betrayal his body was capable of. He didn’t know. He never realized how little control humans actually had. It was terrifying. It was obliterating.

“What pretty sounds you make,” Sam said, his fingers tracing the edge of Cas’s cheekbone, his jaw, “Do you think God can hear them?”

His thumb swiped over Cas’s bottom lip, “Do you think Father is watching his faithful angel tremble at the touch of the boy with demon blood?”

Cas wanted to beg him to stop. To either kill him or let him be, but to stop this thing before he lost his mind completely.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled against Sam’s thumb, tasting the salt and metal of his skin, his entire body immediately aching to taste it again, to drown in it. 

“I do. Your God is dead and gone. I am the only thing left you can believe in. And you wanna believe in me, don’t you Cas?”

Tears were starting to blur the candlelight, the altar, the cross. Cas squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Sam’s fingers hook behind the white collar, tugging it off easily, throwing it off to the side like it was garbage. 

“You wanna belong to me,” Sam whispered, the hand returning where the collar used to press against Cas’s throat, caressing the skin gently as if soothing it after the loss. “You’ve always wanted it. From the moment we met. I could see you watching me. The Warrior of God lusting after Lucifer’s vessel, wishing I would look at you, smile at you, touch you. Did you think I was blind?”

His face was damp. His lungs could not get enough air. His entire body felt too tight, every nerve vibrating, every inch of his skin flushed and hot and unbearable.

Digging his fingers in the soft flesh of Cas’s neck, Sam jerked his head back sharply and Cas moaned, hips stuttering forward on their own, cock already straining against the unforgiving black material. 

“Please,” he gasped, “please—“

Sam loomed above him, immaculate in the soft glow of the candles, pupils so wide they looked black. Maybe they were. Maybe he lied and he truly was possessed. Cas didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything any more but Sam’s hands, touching him, directing him, hurting him. 

“Tell me you’re mine,” Sam prompted gently.

“I’m yours— always yours, always, always—“

“Show me.”


End file.
